


Dead Man Walking

by TipperTupper



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Bishop is a Sociopath, Blind Character, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, Please Don't Hate Me, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TipperTupper/pseuds/TipperTupper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some wishes are never granted, no matter how hard you pray. Some fights are never won, no matter how you reign. And some men never die, no matter what the reality seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anniversary

_1 Year since the Incident ___

__Leonardo could feel the warm light of the candles. Thousands - cheap tea lights that were cast to float in the sewage water and away from the silent family. He felt the petals of the single flower he held in his hand, so soft and light, so easy to break, like thin silk. He felt the subtle vibrations wind through the ground when their father knelt and the skittering on the floor when Leatherhead swished his tail._ _

__He felt the pressure in the air, so thin and light. It felt like they could all just float upwards with a little push; no gravity, just gliding and soaring through the empty air. And his hearing was so sensitive, light to the droplets of leaking water and the soft contorted sniffles of April._ _

__He couldn’t see a single thing._ _

__One week since he’d gone blind. One year since Donatello died._ _

__It didn’t ache like all those books and movies said. He didn’t feel a terrible sadness or an all consuming loss. He was simply numb. Empty. Every time he would turn to ask Donnie if he wanted coffee in the mornings and his little brother wouldn’t be there, that emptiness would eat away at him. It would rot and decay at the fringes of his mind._ _

__Because on that very second that the shot rang through the air, Leonardo had been numb._ _

__After a few murmured words, Splinter’s sons knelt beside him by the edge of the concrete, fingertips catching sprays of water. It was lukewarm and soothing in its white noise. Leonardo gently placed his flower on the lapping surface, his fingers submerging into tepid water. When he let go, he wanted to watch that flower float away; he wanted to see the beauty slowly vanish from his sight in that twisted symbolism._ _

__Instead, he saw memories._ _

__Memories to a certain night that had haunted his sleep for a year._ _

__The haze of battle was hardly memorable. It was a fray, shrouded in rubble and risen dust clouds, fogging every sight and closing around every orifice. The moonlight had crept through and dyed the air with the copper dust. It had been viciously beautiful, he remembered._ _

__There were no sounds, only a continuous high pitched ringing from the countless gunshots of Bishops small army. There was no real time; only flashes and jolts and stops in one adrenaline filled rush._ _

__Leonardo saw the gore; saw the countless faceless soldiers throwing themselves upon his blade. He remembered in flashes of vivid color where his family had been._ _

__Raphael was in the center of it all, a blockade of soldiers attacking him all at once. There was a continuous spray of blood that rained over his form. The sai was not elegant like the blade or the Bo. It stabbed and it shanked, it rained the most gore and flayed the most flesh. It was vibrant and glorious like a championing warrior._ _

__Splinter had been at the edge of it all. Grown men flying at this old rat’s hand, numbers among numbers keeping him from advancing. No matter how quickly he killed one, another would replace it._ _

__Mikey and Donnie – Leonardo remembered swiping a glance to them before it happened. They were back to back, circling in the shadows of the desolate fog, true ninja disappearing into their surroundings and holding their own against this small army._ _

__And now they were here one year later - silent statues, heads bowed - at this anniversary. There wasn’t a grave to honor, they couldn’t even recover Donatello’s body after the battle; and now they were left with only flowers to lay into the water._ _

__It was so laughable. So wickedly ironic, he could laugh and chuckle and giggle. It was so shameful. But here he was, blind, not mourning his brother’s death, merely acknowledging it. Here he was, selfishly wishing for things go back to normal._ _


	2. Rage

_1 Year and 6 Months Since the Incident_

Mikey screamed at night.

Nightmares, he’d said with an embarrassed smile.

Everyone in the lair could hear it. It echoed across the brick and pierced through the metal, these bloodcurdling screams.

But during the day, he was fine.

He smiled, even though it never quite reached his eyes. He ate junk food and played video games, though he always lost now. He watched TV and dozed off during meditation. He laughed and made jokes that weren’t funny. He tried to act as though nothing had happened. And he screamed at night.

It killed Raph.

Nothing was normal. Nothing was fine. Donatello was dead. And Mikey tried not to care.

One day Raph finally snapped.

He’d thought he’d been making progess. He hadn’t gotten _really_ mad for a few days now. But then he got _really, really_ mad. And all he could see was red.

Why or how weren’t important. It was only the anger that mattered.

Molten flames had pulsed through every vein and capillary. It consumed him from the inside out, this… this rage. Every inch – no, every cell of his physical being burned alive and screamed for release.

Everything, every piece of sadness he kept locked up - every pang of worry, every thread of guilt, terrible guilt, every rotten feeling that he’d drowned in during the past year – it was all channeled into this rage. He’d never felt anything like it.

His vision went red and his mind snapped into subconscious and he took it all out on Mikey. He couldn’t see the wide blue-eyed terror, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel his fists pummel fragile flesh, couldn’t remember what he’d done exactly. All he knew was Mikey’s fake smiles and Leo’s clouded eyes, every rib that shone through Master Splinter’s fur and the empty bedroom next to his that would never ever be occupied again by the brother least deserving of death.

Never. Donnie was never coming back.

Smiling chocolate eyes and boring techno rants and – and – and he would never see Donnie again.

Cold silver eyes.

The veil of red suddenly lifted and that’s what Raph saw; Leo’s cold silver eyes glaring down at him and a snarl with sharpened teeth. His older brother was pinning him down, Raph’s arms twisted painfully behind his back and his legs stuck to the floor with Leo’s weight. They were in some awkward position, Raphael half twisted out of it and their faces not even inches apart. He was completely succumbed by those eyes void of everything but frostbitten anger.

Is that what Raph looked like – an animal devoid of anything but half-sane anger?

Suddenly exhausted, Raph fell limp in the death hold. His eyes flashed around in confusion, looking at anything but those blind eyes that seemed to see everything.

“What,” his voice was raw and scratchy, “ _what_?” He wanted to ask what happened, but he already knew. He’d gotten angry again.

Leonardo pulled at his arm until it burned like nothing else and Raph couldn’t fight the cry that tore through his throat.

Leo was growling, he realized. It was low and menacing and probably one of the most intimidating things he’d ever heard.

“Leo!” He tried to pull free from the grasp, but that only made the pain worse. “ _Leo!_ Lemme go!”

“You make me _sick_.” Leo spat before pushing off of him. He stood and his sightless eyes glared down at him, complete anger liquefying the normal emptiness. “You deranged animal,” his voice began rising and his gestures became harsher, “you deserve _to be caged_!”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Raph knew he should be getting angry. He should be puffing out his chest, instigating some fight or another, spitting some venomous retaliation. But he could only look up at his brother, cradling his arm and sprawled on the floor, in shock.

What did he do?

Terror gripped at Raphael, tearing away his breath and freezing his veins. Mikey. Flashes of his little brother under him, forearms raised in a feeble attempt at blocking the punches, blood spattering, knuckles raw… Oh God. Oh God, what the hell did he do?

“Mikey, where’s -” He tried to rise to his feet, but he was shoved relentlessly back down.

“If you think I will let you anywhere near him, think again.”

He should’ve been angry. He should’ve shoved back. But he didn’t.

Eyes wide and horrified, he had to ask, “What did I –“

“You stabbed him.” Leonardo cut him off. He crossed his arms and his head turned to stare straight ahead. “You beat him half to death. You _stabbed him with your sai_. Master Splinter’s taking care of it in the lab.”

Leonardo suddenly turned sharply, feet twisting before he paused to say, “Now go. I don’t want to feel your presence any longer. I’ll be with Mikey, so _stay. Away_.”

After that, it was a very long time before Raphael got angry.

And it was even longer before the screaming stopped.


	3. The Wrong One Died

_1 Year and Seven Months Since the Incident_

It was strange.

Raph was supposed to be the first to die. It was never spoken, never implied, but everyone knew. Raph would be the first to die.

Because that was his job.

Oh, it was taboo; but everyone knew that one of these days, someone was going to die in battle. And it would be Raphael. Splinter knew this, Mikey knew this, Donnie knew this, of course Leo knew this, and Raphael believed it more than anyone. He wanted to die protecting one of his brothers.

He used to secretly imagine what that day would be like. Used to picture this grand army his whole family would fight. They would be trying to get to this bomb or this giant doomsday laser thing, Donnie would’ve found a way to stop it.

And then there would be a grand army, thousands of warriors that stood in the way. And they would all charge through, guns blazing. But there would be too many. Someone had to hold them off. And it would be Raph. He would watch as Leo and Donnie and Mikey and Splinter ran ahead, regret and bitter acceptance riddled on their faces. And he would keep an army from killing those he held most dear, going down in a blaze of glory.

Because he was a protector.

… Or something like that.

He was supposed to be the one to take a bullet for his brothers.

Raphael was the one who had their back.

Raphael was supposed to be the one to see that sniper through the fog, aimed right at Leo, their leader, and run and cut down every soldier in his way, standing in the way just as the trigger was pulled and take the shot.

Donnie wasn’t supposed to do that.

That wasn’t Donnie’s job.

And everyone knew it.

And for the longest time, it hung in the air. Why? Why couldn’t Raph jump in front of that bullet instead of Don? Why couldn’t Raph have died in Donnie’s place?

Why?

Everyone. That question rotted in everyone’s mind.

No one was blamed more than Leo, and no one was glad Raph had walked away from that battle alive.

Mikey could see it in the air that they breathed.

The way Master Splinter’s tail flicked and his ears twitched whenever he saw Raph, the way Leonardo’s mouth seemed to ever so slightly twist whenever he heard Raph’s voice, the way Raph beat his punching bag until his knuckles bled and then beat the wall until you could see the green skin peeling from bone, and most of all, the way Mikey saw Raph and wished he were Don instead – it was everywhere in the air.

Mikey knew it was a disgusting thing to think that the wrong brother died, to weigh one’s life higher than the other; and knowing that those wicked thoughts resided in him simply seemed to fuel that fire more.

And it wasn’t until it was actually said aloud that Mikey realized how _ridiculous_ it was.

It had been a month since Raph had gone into that rage. Mikey’s side still ached where the sai had pierced his ribs all the way down to the hilt. The scar was forming, three discolored slits of flesh.

He tried, but he couldn’t be near Raphael. He couldn’t touch his own brother, his own flesh and blood, without flinching.

He saw those yellow eyes and he remembered the way they had seared with insanity.

Mikey was terrified of his own home.

Oh, Raph mellowed out after that. He was some lethargic shadow that crept around the lair filled with remorse and self hatred. He wouldn’t hurt Mikey.

Of course, Mikey had thought that before…

Yet now he had those scars. The lingering fear, it wouldn’t go away.

Then one day, Mikey had fallen asleep on the couch somehow. He’d been watching TV or something and just dozed off. After all, he never got good sleep.

And it was the same as every night.

It was those nightmares.

He never remembered what they were when he woke up. All he could remember was this feeling of complete terror. Waking up screaming and sweating so much his bed sheets got damp and shaking so damned much and not being able to stop…

That night there were flashes of vivid colors and terror and horror and despair and this complete darkness that consumed him from inside out and everything synonymous with _hell_ and then suddenly… Yellow. Yellow eyes, slit like a cat’s – something touching his shoulder…. Something… A hand…

He couldn’t remember exactly what happened next. God, it was so _detached_ , his memory. He couldn’t remember _why_ he did things or how he felt. It was like he was a spectator of his own actions. He didn’t see through his own eyes when he remembered.

He would watch himself thrash in his sleep, screaming Bloody Mary. He would vaguely remember Raphael’s voice, so oddly gentle, like a mother’s. Heh. Raph. A mom.

Raph tried to soothe him awake, tried to get him to calm down, save him from whatever horrendous reality he was in.

And then he woke up with a jolt, immediately grabbing and throwing his brother to the ground without a single cognitive thought.

Raph’s eyes had been wide with shock. Mikey had held him down, panting and sweating from the aftershock of another damned nightmare.

And he’d been so angry.

He couldn’t quite remember why - the little details, the little semantics. Mikey was just angry, angry that it was Raphael who was there and not Donnie.

Maybe it was because he was still half asleep, unable to _think_ before he acted; but whatever it was, he said it. He said that thing that had been hanging in the air, he said the taboo.

He gripped the sensitive skin of Raphael’s neck, felt the slickness from nervous sweat. Something rumbled from his chest, this animalistic growl, and Mikey bared his teeth and screamed. He screamed at the top of his lungs.

“ _Why?!_ ” he didn’t sound like himself, “ _Why was it Donnie?! WHY DIDN’T YOU DIE INSTEAD?! HUH?! WHY ARE YOU HERE INSTEAD OF DONNIE_?!”

Some part of him was actually expecting his brother to have some sort of answer. Some other part wanted Raph to fall into a rage again. And every piece of him just wanted to see his gentle, witty, brilliant brother again.

“YOU’RE WORTHLESS!” He’d screamed, “You couldn’t even protect one brother! He was right there – right there! WHY DID DONNIE DIE INSTEAD OF YOU?!”

“I don’t know.”

Mikey didn’t even know how he heard Raph’s voice, it was so quiet. It was like this ghost whisper. But Raph had given him an answer.

And his eyes.

Mikey would never forget the expression on Raphael’s face. He’d asked himself that same exact thing every day, that’s what his expression said.

There wasn’t anything hiding in those eyes. There wasn’t anything hiding in that face. Everything was there, raw, and Mikey saw every single drop of pain. And his eyes. This brilliant golden color, darkened and rusted and somehow brighter than the sun; there was so much depth, it was like a bottomless well. Everything was exposed.

And everything was in so, so much pain. And Mikey knew that Raph had wanted to die. He’d _wanted to die_. Raphael didn’t say anything, but in that moment, Raphael had wished just as desperately that he had died instead.

It made Michelangelo cry. And it wasn’t some manly cry where there were silent tears, or a beautiful cry. He bawled, snot ran down his nose, he hiccuped and he wailed like a baby and his face twisted and turned colors. Just sitting there, on the floor next to the couch, hands around Raph’s neck, crying his eyes out.

Raph’s hands were hesitant, hovering just above Mikey’s shell. And finally, he awkwardly put his arms around his brother. The moment he did, too, Mikey flung himself around Raph.

And it was just like they were kids again. With some effort, Raph sat himself up, cradling a wailing Mikey. The person in his arms, he was just his little brother, and he was protecting him from all the bad things – just like the big brother he was supposed to be.

And that made Raph cry.

So there they were – two fully grown, idiot brothers clinging to each other like lifelines – because things were simple. At that moment, things were like they used to be. At that moment, they were simply family, and Donnie was dead, and they were all that they had left.

And that was okay… It was bearable.


	4. Sweet Memories

_2 Years Since the Incident_

Agony.

It was an ugly word, it made people cringe or cry.

Splinter had thought he’d known what agony was. He was old and ancient, a ninja master, he should understand the concept of pain.

Starving, that had been agony. It was like he had slowly been withering away, dissolving like sand. When he and his sons had been scavenging for food, when they were still barely more than infants – watching them starve as well, that had been an even worse agony.

Being captured and tortured by the shredder was agony. Sitting all alone in the lair, when his sons were out on some mission and terribly late – he would watch the seconds tick by on that little clock, praying that nothing had happened. He had been so sure he’d known what agony was.

But nothing compared to this.

It was like he’d been making mountains out of molehills all these years.

Splinter’s bones ached as he knelt in front the small memorial he’d made for Donatello. It wasn’t much, just a couple of photos and a withered bo and a little cactus in a flower pot.

Michelangelo watered the plant and took care of it. It had been Donatello’s. He wasn’t quite sure why Donatello felt the need to have a plant in the first place, but when he asked, Donatello had simply said that cactus’ were easy to take care of.

A small sober smile cracked at Splinter’s mouth.

He looked at the photographs. Most of them were older – from the time Leo had found an unused disposable camera in some dump. The turtles were so small in those pictures. Baby fat still clung to them, and their eyes were wide and curious.

There was this game that Donatello used to play with Splinter when they were that age. The ‘why’ game.

Even when they were toddlers, Donatello had had an aversion to sleeping. Not that Michelangelo or Raphael or even Leonardo never avoided bedtime, but Donatello fought it tooth and nail. There were never enough hours in a day for him.

Splinter chuckled.

Donatello used to read under a little booklight when the others slept. His eyes were always wide and joyful, alight and happy whenever he read. He would lay on his stomach and his legs would kick wildly in the air. And slowly, as night wore on, he would relax and his eyes would droop, like a wind-up toy slowing. But the little turtle would always fight the drowsiness, and he’d continue in his quest to stay awake until he simply nodded off wherever he was.

There was this one night when Splinter was watching TV. He’d finally relaxed, with a cup of tea and no wild boys to chase after. They had finally all gone to bed, and he could occasionally hear Raphael’s snores.

“Master Splinter?”

The father sighed internally before turning the volume down. He turned to face Donatello. “What is it, my son?” He asked.

Don was standing by the living room entrance, his arms wrapped around this old and dirty teddy bear he’d long since grown attached to. “I can’t sleep,” he said.

Splinter sighed. He knew Donatello wasn’t really having trouble sleeping, but looking at the him, tiny and squeezing that bear with all his might, big eyes challenging him to say something and mouth set in a firm line, Splinter couldn’t stop the fond little smile from forming. “Come,” he beckoned with a small flick of his wrist.

Donnie shuffled forward with a smile. When he was close enough, Splinter lifted him onto his lap. He remembered pondering if Donatello had grown since this morning. His son wiggled on his lap until he was comfortable, and then leaned back into the fur.

“Perhaps watching some stories will help.” Splinter reached for the remote and turned the volume up again.

They watched the television silently for a few minutes, the old rat content with the small weight on his lap. He loosely wrapped his arms around Donnie, gentle as though he were handling a fragile gift.

And then chocolate eyes peeped up at him. “I’m cold.” Donatello said.

Splinter hm’d and pulled a blanket around them, tucking all the ends in so Donatello was wrapped snuggly in the warmth.

“Father,” Donnie said, he had that lilt to his voice that always preluded the ‘why’ game. “why do blankets warm people up?”

He opened his mouth to answer… but he didn’t know the answer. Those piercing eyes, though, seemed to believe that Splinter had every answer to all the innumerable questions swimming in that head of his.

So Splinter answered best he could, “Because a blanket is like fur. And fur keeps you warm.”

“Why?”

He thought for a moment, scrambling for answers. It was always like this in the ‘why’ game. “Well…” He rubbed a hand along his arm, “because that’s what it was made to do.”

Donnie gave him a mischievous smile, “why?”

“Because animals need a way to keep warm.”

“Why?”

Splinter hm’d and stroked his beard, “Because the cold can be very dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because we were not made to handle the cold.”

“Why?”

The exchange had gone on for a good half hour before Donatello nodded off into a quiet slumber.

Splinter remembered looking at the child he cradled in his arms, ignorant to the harshness of reality and sleeping so peacefully, curled into his father’s arms. Donatello had been so small and fragile, his life completely and utterly reliant on the old rat.

And Splinter remembered smiling fondly and thinking that no matter what, he would protect this little life in his arms. He would keep away the bad things, keep away everything that made him frown or cry…

And then he remembered that night. It came rushing in like a tidal wave, a single picture, a single moment that was forever imbedded into Splinter’s mind. He saw Don lying on the ground amidst the haze of battle, a trickle of blood running down his features and those same big brown eyes wide in shock and terror. He saw that corpse, a clear perfect image, in a timeless repeat, he saw it every time his eyes closed.

It tainted those sweet memories.

It ate away at the hole in his chest with a terrible agonizing pain. Splinter looked up at the pictures on the memorial. They were framed and dimmed lights reflected off the glass. Donatello was smiling in those pictures. He was little and innocent and untainted.

But Splinter was blind to it.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t gaze on those sweet memories without that frozen moment of chocolate eyed terror flashing before him.

It fringed at his sanity and it tore at his limbs. This numbing pain wound through his bones and scraped at the countless nerves in his fingertips in a continuous reminder that no matter what, for all eternity, a piece of him was missing.

Why?

Because he had failed.


	5. Contingencies

_The Incident_

Bishop watched as the battle unfolded from the helicopter, and a smile slowly crept to his lips. Everything was going as planned.

There were going to be many casualties; he’d already known that, but at the rate that his highly trained soldiers were being thrown around like rag dolls, there would be more than he’d anticipated. But it would be worth it. Those mutants, scientific enigmas, would be completely worth it.

He clasped his hands behind his back and his black coat billowed in the wind. He looked down to the sniper by his side, ready and waiting for the word. They would only have one shot.

Bishop had wondered at which turtle he would kill today. Oh, there was no killing all of them at once, not now. They were superhuman ninja masters, already on the cusp of surpassing their teacher. No, he would have to do it one at a time over a long period of time. Slowly.

He’d thought for hours, planning meticulously. Which death would leave the most damage?

He took off his sunglasses, seeing clearly the night sky and the cloud of dust that’d layered over the battle. The family was mostly spread out, holding their own perfectly fine, but wearing out.

Perfect.

It wouldn’t be Michelangelo, he’d discarded that choice immediately. But watching the orange clad turtle twist and dance through the fray beside his brother in a deadly grace, he actually rethought his decision for a moment.

Though unassuming in personality and appearance, Michelangelo was a deadly force. Lithe like Donatello, strong like Raphael, and as cunning as Leonardo, he would surpass them all soon. But he was not completely necessary to the functioning of the team. The rest were protective of him, and if Bishop killed the self proclaimed youngest, it would merely sharpen the steel. And they would seek vengeance.

No, it couldn’t be him.

Donatello, now Bishop had thought him over quite a lot. He was the brains behind the operations, the genius that kept them light on their feet. But the mutants were surviving, not striving – Leonardo and Michelangelo would be more than enough to take his place in that role. It would not weaken the army, that turtle’s death would only serve for them to hone their skills in other areas.

Besides, Bishop was hoping to get Donatello alive. He could do a lot with someone so intelligent.

Raphael would weaken the forces, but nothing else. Bishop chuckled at that. He was an animal.

The agent had ordered for Raphael to be rushed, he didn’t want him to get in the way. In the center of a crowd of at least twenty armed soldiers, the red banded turtle was a figure in the haze. His shadow held its ground and sprays of blood rained down on him. He literally tore through Bishop’s men, no matter how many of their bullets hit their target.

It had all come down to Leonardo. So simple really, like a game of chess; take the king and the rest of the army falls.

Bishop looked to his target. The one in blue, the leader, fighting like a viper; oh, he would make a good specimen.

But there was a chance he would dodge the bullet. With superhuman reflexes and a lifetime of training, Bishop had no doubt these turtles were capable of such feats.

“Rush the one in blue,” Bishop ordered a soldier to his left.He waited until the command made its way to the ground soldiers, watching as, slowly, more men were dispatched and more men surrounded Leonardo until he could do nothing but concentrate on the fight at hand.

Bishop then turned to sniper, “Fire when clear.”

“Yes sir.”

The man took aim, tilting the rifle slightly, and his finger pulled the trigger…

The one in purple, quick as lightning, sprinted in front of the bullet just in time to be hit. And there was this moment when time slowed immensely. Illuminated black eyes stared straight at Agent Bishop. No, it was as if Donatello stared straight _into_ him.

Donatello had seen the sniper, he took the bullet for his brother. It tore through his forehead, and the turtle fell limp to the ground.

Shit.

Well, there was always a plan for contingencies.

Bishop turned to his second, “Fall back and get me the turtle’s body.”

Just as he turned away, an animal-like roar pierced the heavens.

A half smile danced on Bishop’s lips, “Animals.” He said under his breath. 

* * *

Thanks to the minimal physical damage, they had been able to put Donatello’s body on a sort of life support. He was brain dead, but his body would keep functioning - it wouldn’t decompose.

Other than the wrong one dying, everything was running smoothly. When it came to dissection, any mutant would do.

Bishop dropped the dented bullet into the tin, laced in blood. These mutants didn’t bleed as much as humans, but his gloved hands were still covered in the life liquid.

The body was hooked to countless machines, monitors and false lungs, and a steady beeping of the terrapin heartbeat was all that enveloped the lab.

Under the harsh lights, the nurses and doctors were shaded too sharply, and the body was illuminated too much. Every detail of the mutant was fresh on the table, open for all to see.

And it was fascinating.

“Agent Bishop,” one of the nurses called.

“What is it?” he said belligerently, keeping to his elbow deep task.

“The, uh, the turtle should be brain dead, no?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s not.”

At that, Bishop looked up. “…What?”

The nurse’s eyes flicked between the agent and the monitors, “it’s not much, but there is brain activity.”

“Let me see,” Bishop said as he made his way to the nurse, his pale brow furrowed against the bright shadows. The nurse scooted over for the man and cast him a curious glance as he placed a hand on the edge of the display and stared intently at the data.

And there it was. Small amounts of brain waves, weaving in green pixels and gliding across the screen. It wasn’t much, she’d been right, but it was enough.

Perhaps there’d been a mishap, but things were turning out better than Bishop had thought. His lips curved ever so lightly.


	6. Elephants at the Table

_4 Years since the Incident_

Even through the dojo walls, the scent of food was strong enough to thicken Leonardo’s throat. He continued in his katas, focusing effortlessly past painfully heightened senses and moving fluidly above the tatami mats.

He could feel the subtle scrapes of the bamboo as his feet glided and moved into positions. He could feel the lukewarm air bend to his thrusts and the heat emanating from brick walls. It was as if his entire presence filled the room, searching every gap and hole. And in many ways, Leo was much more aware of the world around him now than when he could see.

He felt the floor bend ever so slightly as Raph approached the sliding door and heard the screech as it opened smoothly.

“Hey Leo,” Raph said, “breakfast time.”

Leo grunted in response and Raph left, leaving the door open behind him.

In plenty of ways, Leonardo was relieved.

He ended his kata, wiped the sweat from his brow, and left the threshold of that serenading room.

Leo was relieved because Mikey wasn’t missing an arm and Raph wasn’t missing an eye and Master Splinter wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

He paused in the doorway and sniffed the air. Splinter was here. He was at the table, sitting.

Leo couldn’t remember the last time Splinter had joined them for breakfast.

He could hear Mikey humming in the kitchen, some Guns N’ Roses song.

He straightened his back and squared his shoulders before making his way over. Act casual, he kept telling himself, act normal, don’t say anything about it, don’t startle him.

Raph shifted in his seat to lean back. “Ya smell like shit, Leo,” he scoffed, “pulled an all-nighter again, huh?”

“Someone has to patrol.” Leo said. He didn’t let the tinges of irritation that fringed his exhaustion leak into his voice. That would only encourage Raph. He sat down across from his brother and nodded to his father. “Good morning, Master Splinter.”

When was the last time Splinter had been in the same room as Leo for more than a few seconds? Training wasn’t necessary anymore, their meditation sessions had lessened until nonexistent… No, Splinter had completely withdrawn since the incident.

“Good morning, my son.” Splinter’s voice was withered from lack of use, “I made you tea.”

Leo nodded and his father slid a cup over to him, “Thank you.” He grasped the little thing cautiously; even after three years, he was still getting used to controlling his strength without his sight. It was an odd thing. Who knew vision could influence so much?

“Y’know,” Raph paused to take a drink of coffee, “I really hate elephants.”

Leo raised a brow before taking a sip and Splinter sipped at his own tea.

“Just sayin’.”

They hung in a small silence for a paralyzed second before Mikey entered the dining room. He always did have a dispelling presence. The youngest brother began placing steaming plates in front of everyone.

“Raphie’s beating around the bush,” he said casually as he handed Leo his plate, “what he meant is that he doesn’t like elephants when they’re in small, enclosed spaces.” Mikey took his seat and said nothing more, too concentrated on engorging himself with bacon and eggs.

“Do you mean to say there’s an elephant in the room?” Leo said.

“’S great to have ya back, Splinter.” Raphael ignored his brother.

Splinter nodded. He kept his head bowed, staring at his food with a contemplative look.

Not yet.

Breakfast was, if anything, tense. The humid air seemed dry and gravity seemed to have doubled.

It was Splinter.

There was something bothering him, something that ate past the initial mourning that never really ceased and something Leo was sure that Raphael and Mike could most definitely sense.

His lip curved ever so slightly. Elephants indeed…

It was only when Leo moved to gather empty plates did Master Splinter tell them.

The small tea cup was settled onto the table with a faint clink, and the old rat absently stroked the porcelain with fragile fingers. He lowered his snout and let out a heavy breath, his shoulders squaring as the air left him.

Even after he composed himself, their father was a frail thing – it was like he could be snapped like a toothpick.

Everyone ceased in their motions, all attention snapping to Splinter with the engravings of years of training. Every mind locked on what this old man had to say. After all, it had been a long time since he’d done this.

“I fear,” he started, his composure faintly wavering. “I fear that I have much to apologize for.”

“Father-“

Splinter stopped his son with a raised paw. He closed his eyes and let out another sigh. “Not yet.” He said and opened wise eyes before continuing, “A father protects his sons, cares for his sons, and carries his children when they are not strong enough to walk on their own… When they are hurting, a parent is there to hold their children. No matter what.”

Silence.

The loudest silence Leonardo had ever heard in his small frame of existence.

And then Splinter’s voice pierced through it like an arrow, a wound, a sharp indent into skin bleeding only after the fact…

“When,” the rat’s head bowed lower, “when you, all three of you, needed me most, I wasn’t there. I was too lost in my own grief, having lost a son… that I forgot my other sons had lost a brother.

“I failed. As a father, I failed. And I will not ask forgiveness. I only ask that you accept my apology and may let me stand with you in the future one day.”

What?

_What?_

Leo’s hands curled to fists and his blood turned to ice. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t remorseful, he wasn’t glad or sad, he wasn’t heart broken… He wasn’t numb…

But it was Mikey who broke the silence, “Why?” Even though he couldn’t see, Leo knew that anguish littered his little brother’s face. Deep blue eyes filled with tears, but Leo knew none would fall. “Just – all of a sudden,” Mikey let out a shaky breath, he had to know. “After four years, why now?”

“I… am sorry Michelangelo,” Splinter’s brow furrowed and his shoulders fell, “for being late.”

He lifted his head, looking each son in the eye, even though Leo wouldn’t see. “While meditating this morning… I felt Donatello.”

“You _what_?” This time, it was Raph.

It was not uncommon, Leo knew, for masters to reach the dead…

Splinter sighed, “It was faint, but I now know that he is at peace.” He looked at the porcelain cup and removed his hand of it. “For only a small moment, he reached out to me. He reached out to me and I saw _all_ my sons.”

The frail old rat had not expected his sons to react well, if at all. But it still burnt to his core like a thousand suns when Raphael, then Michelangelo, and finally Leonardo, left him to sit with a cup of tea and the burdens of failure.


End file.
